


Enjolras and the Tiny Terror

by bewareofitalics



Series: The ABC Club [3]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AU, Baby-Sitters Club fusion, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:05:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewareofitalics/pseuds/bewareofitalics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Enjolras, every baby-sitting job is another chance to change the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enjolras and the Tiny Terror

It started at a meeting of the ABC Club. It seems that most interesting things in my life start there, nowadays. The ABC Club is an organization for those who would help mold today’s youth into tomorrow’s educated, productive, and happy citizens – in other words, for baby-sitters. My friends and I gather three times a week and parents call us to schedule baby-sitters for their children. There are nine of us, so someone is always bound to be free. The parents appreciate the convenience, the children benefit from our experience and dedication, and each of us sitters ends up with steady work. Everyone wins, and it’s all due to my friend Bahorel’s simple yet brilliant idea.

My name is Enjolras, and I am the ABC Club’s democratically-elected president. Today was Wednesday, a meeting day, so my friends and I were crowded into Grantaire’s bedroom. We meet there because Grantaire is the only one of us to have his own phone and phone number. Lounging on the floor and various pieces of furniture, we may not look like much, but my friends – Combeferre, Jehan, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, even Grantaire – are capable of greatness.

The phone rang, and Bahorel reached it first. “Hello, ABC Club,” he said. “Oh, hi Mom. Tomorrow? Why are you going to be out tomo- aw, man, do I _have_ to? Okay, hold on, we’ll call you back.”

Combeferre had the record book open. “Gavroche on Thursday?” he said. “What time?”

“3:00 to 5:00,” said Bahorel. “Count me out, I have to go to the _orthodontist_.” He pretended to gag.

“In that case,” said Combeferre, before Joly could jump in with a lecture on the importance of orthodontia, “Enjolras, Jehan, and Grantaire are free.”

“One of you can take it,” said Jehan. “I’m not very good at the kind of games Gavroche likes.”

That made sense. Gavroche, Bahorel’s seven-year-old foster brother, likes running and shouting and roughhousing. Jehan prefers calmer activities, like reading and coloring and playing pretend. But don’t think that means he’s weak. He’s probably the bravest person I know. He stands up to bullies, he calmly handles baby-sitting emergencies, he rescues cats from trees. (That’s how he got his kitten, Andre.) And he does it all while wearing things like paisley shorts or a sweatshirt with frogs and lily pads all over it. Still, we all get along better with some children than others.

I nodded at Jehan, and then looked at Grantaire.

“You take it,” he said immediately. “I have, um, a thing.”

Grantaire has been acting strange toward me lately. Courfeyrac says it’s because he has a crush on me, but that’s absurd. Grantaire and I are complete opposites and he antagonizes me constantly, how does that add up to a crush? But I suppose Courfeyrac knows more about crushes than I do. He has a new one every week, while I’ve never had one at all. “Are you sure?” I asked. “I’ve already had more jobs than you this week.”

“He’s sure,” said Courfeyrac with a grin. 

Grantaire threw a pillow at him. “Just take the job,” he said to me.

“Very well,” I said. Combeferre recorded the appointment.

“You should have fun,” commented Bahorel after he called his mother back. “I just dug up my old toy guns, and Gavroche has been running around playing revolutionary.”

“Playing revolutionary?” I repeated, frowning slightly.

“Yeah, the house is full of dead tyrants.”

“Cuuuute,” said Joly and Bossuet together. (They hooked pinkies and said “jinx.”)

“You’ve taught him well,” said Feuilly.

“Whatever,” said Grantaire.

“Enjolras?” said Combeferre. “Is something wrong?”

I was still frowning. Revolution, especially the French Revolution, has always been a passion of mine, but something bothered me about the idea of playing revolutionary. Not that I had any room to criticize – when I was Gavroche’s age, I spent many happy hours building barricades and guillotines out of Legos. Combeferre, my best friend even then, made sure we spent just as much time rebuilding society when the revolution was over. Wait, that’s it! Revolution is about more than violence. Revolution is about building a better world. To glorify only the violence is to assure that violence is all there will ever be, and to reduce armed revolt to one man running around shooting tyrants is to disrespect everyone who ever fought and died for liberty. Now I smiled. “I’m fine,” I said. “I have an idea.”

The next day, after a quick stop at my house to get my ABC Kit, I biked over to Bahorel’s house. He lives on Mondetour Court, across the street from Grantaire and next door to Jehan. I live on Chanvrerie Street, in a farmhouse that was built in 1789. (Some people think my house is creepy, but I think it’s thrilling. People lived there during the French Revolution! I know that we’re thousands of miles from France and maybe those people didn’t know what was happening, but I’m sure they felt something. The spirit of revolution moves at the speed of light.) Combeferre’s house is across the street from mine, and Joly’s is a few houses over from his. Bossuet’s house is in back of Joly’s, on Rambuteau Street. Feuilly lives on Saint-Denis Avenue, a few blocks past Bahorel’s house. Right in the middle of all of us, on Verrerie Road, is Courfeyrac’s house. It’s a good neighborhood, with plenty of children to baby-sit. Right now, I was concerned with only one: Gavroche.

I don’t know Gavroche’s whole story. None of us do. He came to live with Bahorel’s family about a year and a half ago, seemingly because his parents abandoned him. Gavroche is proof that, in some ways, the world has changed for the better. Not in all ways, of course. There is still a _lot_ of work to be done. And the foster system is far from perfect. But if Gavroche had been abandoned in, say, nineteenth century France, he would have had to fend for himself on the streets, while today he has a roof over his head, food in his belly, and a loving family. He has come through his difficulties admirably, much like Feuilly has weathered his family’s poverty. Gavroche is one of the kindest people I know of any age. He always shares his toys, and he will drop everything to comfort someone who looks sad. He can be a handful, but he is a handful with an excellent heart.

His handful side was in evidence today. “Bang, bang!” he shouted, pointing a toy gun at my heart, as soon as the door had closed behind Bahorel and his mother. “You’re dead, stupid king!” He grinned up at me, showing off his missing teeth.

Gently, I took the gun from him and placed it on a table. “I am neither dead, nor stupid, nor a king,” I said.

“I know that,” said Gavroche scornfully. “I’m playing revolutionary, so you’re playing the king! Gimme my gun so I can kill you again!”

“Maybe later. For now, how would you like to be a _real_ revolutionary?”

“With a real gun?”

“No,” I said. “With real _words_. Come on.” I made my way to the living room, carrying my ABC Kit.

Gavroche followed, and sat on the couch when I did. “Words are _boring_ ,” he said.

“Words are powerful,” I corrected him. “Now, tell me, what do you know about revolution?”

“Kings tell everyone what to do, and that’s bad, so the people get together and kill them!” Gavroche held up an imaginary gun. “Bang!”

I winced. Bahorel was well aware of the finer points of revolution – as he had once proved by finishing all my sentences for me when I went off on one tangent too many – but he did tend to dwell on the most obviously exciting parts. “Revolution,” I said, “is the fight against injustice. Once, the fighting was done with weapons, and in some parts of the world it still is, but here and now, we can fight with voices and votes.”

Gavroche looked confused. “What’s injustice?” he asked. “Is that a kind of king?”

“No, but it’s something that kings perpetuate,” I said. Gavroche looked at me blankly. I would have to be more clear! I dislike talking down to children, and sometimes I forget that they don’t know all the words I know yet. “‘Injustice’ means ‘unfairness.’ It’s unfair for a king to be in charge and the people to get no say in how the government is run. It’s unfair for some people to not have access to things like food and education simply because of who they are. It’s unfair for those on top to take advantage of those below. Do you understand?”

“I think so. Can I be a real revolutionary now?”

I smiled. “I was just getting to that. Tell me, has anything unfair happened to you lately?”

Gavroche thought for a moment. “The lunch lady yelled at me.”

“Why did the lunch lady yell at you?”

“Because I took an apple without paying for it.”

“Why did you take an apple without paying for it?”

“Because Gervais lost his lunch money, and he was hungry.”

Tears sprang into my eyes. “No one should let a child go hungry,” I said. “It is the duty of the strong to protect the weak. You did the right thing, Gavroche.”

“I know,” said Gavroche, “but I got in trouble!”

“That is because the lunch lady did the wrong thing. Did you explain the situation to her?”

“I tried to, but she just kept yelling.”

“That was _very_ wrong of her. Clearly, the system is broken, and we are going to fix it.”

“How?” asked Gavroche.

“With this.” I reached into my ABC Kit and pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. “We are going to write a letter to the school board asking them to let children eat lunch even when they have no money. If the letter alone doesn’t help, we can have a protest.”

“What’s a protest?”

“It’s when a group of people gathers to tell the people in power that the way things are is not fair. If there are enough protesters, or if a few protesters are loud enough, it forces people to pay attention.”

Gavroche bounced in his seat. “I can be loud! Listen to this: LUNCH LADIES ARE MEANIEHEADS!”

I laughed. “Very good! And we can make signs.”

“Signs?” asked Gavroche, with a gleam in his eyes.

By the time Bahorel and his mother came home, Gavroche had dozens of signs, ranging from “LET JERVAY EAT” and “FOOD 4 ALL” to “DOWN WITH HOMWERK” and “MOR REECES NOW.” And me? I had a new cause.


End file.
